You know that feeling when you have to pretend something is amazing just to get by? Like you’re living this double life, one where you say all the right things and another where you just… don’t feel it. That’s been me this whole semester with this one class. It’s a classic, like THE classic, everyone’s read it, everyone loves it, you know? And I’m a lit major, so I’m supposed to love it too. But I don’t. Not even a little bit. It’s so boring. So slow. I read the first fifty pages and felt my brain turning to mush. All these long descriptions, these weird old-timey ways of talking. My parents, they came here so I could have opportunities, so I could study whatever I wanted. My dad especially, he always talks about how lucky I am to be in university, to be reading these important books. He asks about my classes, really asks. And he expects me to be EXCITED about them. So I couldn't tell him, or anyone really, how much I dreaded opening that book. Every time I picked it up, it felt like a chore. Like actual physical labor. But this was a big paper, a huge chunk of my grade. And the professor, she LOVES this book. Like, she glows when she talks about it. You could tell she’d be able to sniff out any fake enthusiasm. I had to go all in. I spent hours in the library. Not reading, not really. Skimming. Wikipedia. SparkNotes. Anything to avoid having to actually read the sentences. I kept thinking about how back home, my aunties would tell stories, long stories, but they were always about people, about life, not… this. This felt like homework from another planet. And I’m sitting there, trying to connect these old dusty words to something real, something I could write about. Then it hit me. I didn’t have to love it. I just had to act like I did. So I started finding little things. A turn of phrase here, a metaphor there. I started pulling out themes, not because I saw them, but because the internet told me they were there. I found some academic articles online, dense stuff, and I just… rephrased it. Made it my own, but not really. I started building this whole argument about the author’s genius, their profound insight into the human condition. Stuff I didn't believe for a second. The paper came back with an A. A big, fat A. And a comment from the professor, handwritten, saying "Excellent analysis! You clearly have a deep understanding of the text and its lasting impact." I read it in my dorm room, alone, at like 3 in the morning. And you know what? I didn’t feel good. Not really. I felt… empty. Like I’d pulled off a great magic trick, but all I’d done was fool everyone. Fooled myself, even. Now I have to go to class and pretend to be even MORE enthusiastic because I got a good grade. Like I'm some kind of expert on this book. Everyone’s talking about it, how brilliant the ending is, how it changed their perspective. And I just nod and smile and make vague, intelligent-sounding noises. And my dad called last night, so proud, saying "See? All that hard work pays off." Yeah, it pays off. In this weird, fake currency. Sometimes you just wonder if anyone actually means what they say, or if we’re all just performing for each other. Because it’s exhausting. And I still have two more years of this. And a whole bunch of other classics I probably won’t get. But I'll write about them like they're the greatest things ever written. Because that’s what you do.